


Caught Up in a Moment (Thought I'd Feel No Shame)

by orphan_account



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Clint Needs a Hug, Deaf Clint Barton, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-05 10:35:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4176648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint knows it's a bad idea, but he picks up a one night stand to get Coulson off his mind.</p><p>He can't bring himself to do it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caught Up in a Moment (Thought I'd Feel No Shame)

**Author's Note:**

> Passing references to past abuse on Clint's end, brief Clint/OMC that ends up unsuccessful. Hope you enjoy.
> 
> Unbeta'd. All mistakes are mine.

"So, you comin'?"

Clint looks back at the bed.

Trev's taken his shirt off, revealing a smooth chest, an impressively flat stomach. Under Clint's eye, he leans backwards, an inviting smile quirking his lips. "We've got all night, but I thought we might take it fast in the beginning."

Clint does his best to muster up a smile. "Yeah, sounds..." completely unappealing. "Sounds good."

He can't even muster up a shred of attraction for the hot half-naked guy waiting for him.

Deciding to at least join Trev in his state of undress, Clint strips off his shirt, resolutely ignoring the dread fluttering in the pit of his stomach.

It's just sex. It's not like he hasn't done it before.

A low wolf-whistle draws his attention back to the bed, where Trev's casting an appraising look down his torso. "Jeeze, Clint. I knew you'd be built," Trev says, smile turning predatory.

Clint's skin crawls under his gaze. He does his best not to let his revulsion show on his face. "I wouldn't call it built," Clint starts, since it's true, his isn't a body built, it's a body honed.

Trev shakes his head. "Those fucking shoulders, man. They're my kryptonite."

Kryptonite.

Clint's mind flashes to a pair of blue eyes, warm, crinkling at the corners, a subtle smile that never really seems to go away.

 _Bad brain!_ Clint chastises, _no biscuit_.

When Trev rearranges himself, limbs splayed in a way that looks haphazard but comes across as inviting, Clint can't stall anymore. It's pretty obvious what Trev wants.

Hesitantly, he rises from the edge of the bed, arranging his hands around Trev self consciously. It's been a while since he's done this, even longer since he's done this with the feeling of guilt curdling in his stomach, but Clint guesses it's like riding a bicycle. Well, it has riding, at least.

"Come on," Trev teases, arching upwards, arms curling around Clint's back. Clint can feel his skin erupt in goosebumps at the unfamiliar touch, so different from the warm, broad, slightly calloused hands he's come to know so well.

He lowers himself onto Trev, their chests touching, but even the perverse thrill of skin brushing against skin doesn't excite him.

Trev ruts up, hardness evident even through his pants, and Clint shifts strategically. When Trev's dick brushes against his hip, all Clint can think of is how glad he's going to be when this is over.

When Trev reaches down with practiced hands, deftly jerking his pants down with one fluid motion, Clint rises, steadying himself on a single knee. He reaches for his belt, trying to unbuckle it, but his fingers don't seem to want to cooperate. When he looks down, they're shaking.

Once upon a time, Clint had become well acquainted with the feeling of _wrong_ at the touch of foreign skin. Once upon a time, Clint had become adept at concealing his disgust, his revulsion at the idea of being used, disguising winces as smiles. Once upon a time, Clint had done this to survive, rutting against another man's leg just to ensure he'd have a warm bed and a hot meal for the night.

His fingers have never shaken before. They're sniper's fingers, rough and calloused and clumsy, and they never shake, they never have, so why, why are they shaking now?

"Fuck," says Clint, rolling sideways. He tries to look away from his fingers, but he gets as far as Trev's blue eyes before he's hit by a wave of nausea so strong he has to bend over, gasping.

"Hey," says Trev, and Clint barely has the presence of mind to note that it's soft, suddenly gentle. "Hey, are you okay?"

Clint breathes in, breathes out. The lie is on the tip of his tongue, the same lie as always, the lie he thought he'd never have to use again. Clint knows normal people don't think of other men during sex.

Even if the man is kind, and steadfast, and trustworthy, and everything Clint never let himself hope for. Even if the man is probably hopelessly straight with an adoring girlfriend waiting for him somewhere, or, or a white house and a picket fence and two kids and a dog.

Hesitation isn't foreign to Clint, but he's never hesitated like this before. He can practically taste the words from how often he's used them, a simple _I'm fine_ to allay worries and relieve suspicion, but they aren't coming.

He breathes in, deep and slow.

"No," Clint says softly, and the weight of the world crashes off his shoulders. He slumps forward, suddenly drained, a shudder wracking through his body.

No. He isn't okay.

"Hey," Trev says again, even softer, and Clint can practically feel his hesitation. He touches Clint lightly on his bare shoulder, and Clint can't help but shiver again, goosebumps rippling across his skin.

He doesn't know what Trev sees in his eyes when he can finally bring himself to raise his head, but whatever it is, it makes Trev's mouth set decisively. "You look like you need a coffee," Trev says, reaching over to grab Clint's shirt, dropping it in his lap. "And... maybe somebody to talk to."

Clint blinks at him, startled. "You mean..." he clears his throat, voice feeling cracked at raw. "You don't care?"

A regretful smirk plays around Trev's mouth, shining in his eyes, the eyes that are just as blue as the one's Clint can't help think about but somehow completely different at the same time. "Sex is nice and all, but I really don't like the idea of doing it with someone who isn't having fun."

Clint can feel his face burn. He reaches up to scrub at his eyes, unable to meet Trev's gaze. He feels like a fucking failure. "Fuck. I'm sorry, I-"

"Hey, hey, woah, no need to apologize." Trev hurriedly backtracks, shrugging on his own shirt. "I've had it happen before. You see a guy, think he's cute, and you get to bed and suddenly just... eh. It sucks, for both parties, but it happens to everybody. Don't feel bad."

Clint nods jerkily. Maybe he isn't so fucked up, after all.

He's still pretty fucked up.

Trev claps him gently on the shoulder before standing. "My offer for coffee's still on the table, but I understand if you don't want to. It's awkward, I know. Thanks for buying me drinks, by the way, ego boosts are great."

Clint can't bring himself to look Trev in the eye when he shakes his head. "No thanks," he says, and his voice sounds shaky to his own ears. "I'll manage."

Trev frowns. It really drives home how much Clint doesn't deserve this. "You sure?"

Clint nods. "Yeah," he says quietly.

"Okay," Trev says, lingering a moment more before turning tail, picking up his discarded shoes. Clint can feel eyes on him for another moment as Trev hesitates next to the door, and is incredibly, indescribably grateful when Trev leaves without a word, obviously deciding not to push.

Clint collapses onto the bed, scrubbing at his eyes again. Fucking hell, what was he thinking?

Well, he was mainly thinking about Coulson, with his stupid blue eyes and his stupid smile and the way his stupid suit emphasizes the strong lines of his chest. It's why he went to the bar in the first place, aiming to drink until he couldn't think anymore, but then he saw a cute guy - brown haired, and blue eyed, and almost able to pass for a younger version of the man that haunts Clint in his every waking moment.

He knew it was a mistake from the moment he saw Trev smile, but he still bought the guy a drink, got to know him a bit, before suggesting they go somewhere a bit more private.

Agents don't usually bring civilians into S.H.I.E.L.D's quarters, but Clint's seen it done quite a few times before. He's lucky that his rooms are in a nondescript building a few blocks away from HQ, so he didn't have to show Trev out and prolong the awkwardness between them. It's not like there's a rule against picking up strangers, it's just that most of S.H.I.E.L.D's workforce is too busy to even spare a thought for a one night stand.

He's still sprawled on his bed, shirt in his lap, when his door rattles. Clint barely has time to straighten up before it's opening. "Sorry to interrupt, Barton-" a familiar voice starts and abruptly stops, and Clint closes his eyes because yup, this is his life.

When he opens them again, Phil Coulson is staring at his bare chest, a red flush coloring his cheeks. Clint can practically see the gears in Coulson's brain turning as he quickly glances to the messy bed, the covers hastily kicked aside, the shoes and socks strewn across the floor, and reaches the inevitable conclusion.

"Sorry- I'm sorry," Coulson stutters. Clint's never seen anybody blush so brightly. "I'll- is she in the bathroom? I'll just, I'll see myself out-"

"It's," Clint says, the words lodging in his throat, clunky and unused. Coulson stops, mouth still half open, waiting for him to continue. "It's a he."

"Oh," Coulson says, and then, "Oh," soft and quiet. "I'll be in my office. Please come as soon as it's-"

"He isn't here," Clint says, abruptly. What the hell is he doing? His common sense is trying to tell him something, but the alcohol he's had helps him ignore it. "It didn't work. I- I couldn't help thinking about someone else."

Coulson looks overwhelmed, glancing at the door, but when he notices Clint looking at him his face immediately becomes bland, settling into the competent mask he wears so well. It sends pain lancing through Clint's heart.

"Was it..." Coulson says gingerly, settling himself at the corner of the bed Clint himself had sat on only bare minutes ago. "Was it Bobbi?"

Clint stares at him.

Is Coulson really that fucking blind or is he just trying to give Clint an avenue to escape gracefully?

Coulson slowly flushes again, glancing at Clint before lowering his eyes. "I mean," he says, and it's only years of hearing Coulson's voice in his ear that lets Clint pick up on Coulson's nervousness, "I'm not very good with... with relationships. I- I guess it's because I just had one serious one, in college, but then I joined the Rangers, and he-"

Clint's brain grinds to a halt. He?

Coulson's talking, but Clint isn't paying attention, can't pay attention, can only stare mutely at Coulson. He raises a shaking hand to his ear, just to check that his hearing aids are in, even though he knows they are. He can feel the telltale buzz in his ear, nearly drowned out by his racing heartbeat.

Could it be that-

Could Coulson really be, really be-

"And, well, I'm here if you need someone to talk to," Coulson is saying, when Clint's ears decide to function again, still resolutely staring at his lap. "Natasha's probably a better option, but I... I'll do my best. So... Bobbi?"

"You."

It takes a moment for Clint to realize that it was his voice speaking, his voice confessing, and he can't help the way his breathing becomes hurried, panicked. Coulson's head jerks upwards, those blue eyes boring into Clint like they're trying to read all the secrets Clint can feel written across his face, and Clint feels the bottom drop out of his stomach.

Good job, Clint. Good. Job.

"Clint?" Coulson says, moving closer. "Clint?" he says again, softer, lost, and something in his gaze causes Clint's voice to work again, causes his eyes to be drawn back to Coulson's own.

"You," Clint says, and it feels final, set in stone, the words escaping his throat and carrying upwards like a prayer. He takes a deep breath, shutting his eyes resolutely, and waits for the blow to come.

One... two... three seconds pass without any physical violence incoming, and Clint hesitantly opens one eye, and then the other.

Coulson looks absolutely gobsmacked.

"You-" Coulson starts, swallowing hard, and Clint's never heard him so uncertain, never heard him so unsure. "Me?"

Clint looks away. He can't meet Coulson's eyes. "Yeah." he says, soft but no less meaningful for it, and prepares for the inevitable rejection, the end, the loss of the one thing Clint let himself yearn for.

"Clint," Coulson says again, and it's low. Urgent. "Look at me."

Clint's too much of a coward to look the guy he's in goddamn love with in the eye. He blinks in surprise when warm, calloused fingers grip his chin, gently nudging him upwards. When he can finally bring himself to look at Coulson, Coulson looks-

Coulson looks like he did when Clint gave him his birthday present, the last Captain America card he needed for his collection, soft and open and so fucking beautiful that it makes Clint's heart hurt. He'd spent months tracking it down, laying an intricate web through what remained of his contacts, and it was worth all of the effort just for Coulson's face, even though Clint couldn't bring himself to look at him for more than a moment, darting glances when he thought Coulson wasn't watching.

"If this is-" Coulson say, and it's shaky, weak. "If this is-" he breaks off into a choked laugh. "Please don't let this be a joke. Please."

Clint takes a deep breath. "When have I ever lied to you, sir?" he says, and it comes out more honest than he's intended, too raw.

Coulson closes his eyes. "Phil," he says, and when he opens them again, their gleaming with resolve. "Phil, Clint. Call me Phil."

"I- Phil," Clint says, and the word falls from his tongue like it was always meant to be there. "I- what?"

"Goddammit, Barton," Coulson - Phil - says, but he's smiling so he can't be angry, and suddenly they're kissing, clumsy and sloppy and messy and so, so perfect.

Not even a moment later, Phil draws back, breathing heavily, and Clint wants to tug him back and pull him into another kiss and never let go again. "I..." Phil says, and his eyes are searching, locked on Clint's. "I can't stop thinking about you."

Clint's breath leaves his lungs in a soft whoosh at the confirmation that Coulson's thought about it too, Coulson's thought about them, holy fuck.

"Natasha kicked me out of her room tonight because she said I was pining so loudly she couldn't hear herself think," Clint admits, because hey, he's drunk, may as well embarrass himself even more.

"Fuck-" Phil says, and that's about as far as he gets before his mouth is on Clint's again, pushy and insistent.

Clint fucking loves it.

Well, Clint fucking loves Phil, so it isn't a huge leap of reasoning.

When Phil deepens the kiss, Clint can't help the soft moan that tears out of his throat. He can't even bring himself to feel embarrassed, lost in the way Phil is intently exploring his mouth with his tongue.

When they break apart, gasping for breath, Clint tries to get enough neurons firing to arrange words in an order that makes. "How- how long?" he eventually settles for, because his higher thought processes are all tied up in reliving the kiss in loving, explicit detail.

Phil makes a strangled noise. "Years," he says, and Clint's eyes burn, because it isn't just him, for once, Phil's just as head over heels as Clint is.

"I..." Clint swallows past the lump in his throat. "I've- I've felt it for years too. Took me a few to, to come to terms with it."

Phil's eyes are tender, soft. "Bobbi?"

Clint shrugs. "Yeah. It's one of the reasons we... didn't turn out so well."

"What are the others?" Phil asks, and Clint takes a deep breath.

"I'm..." he says, shifting away, feeling his ears heat, guilt settling in the pit of his stomach. "I'm a pretty bad boyfriend. I forget things, and sometimes I say things I don't mean, and- and- I'm kind of a failure at the whole marriage thing-"

"You're not," Phil says, startling Clint out of his stumbled explanation. The look in Phil's eyes is surprisingly intense, resolute. "You're not a failure. Never been, Clint."

Clint can't do much more than stare at him.

Natasha's said as much, though not in the same words, but this is the first time that someone Clint trusts - someone Clint loves - has told him he isn't an abject failure.

Even the traitorous thoughts that swirled in his mind after Natasha told him he isn't a waste of space, the thoughts that whispered _she's lying_ and _you're worthless_ and _you're useless_ , seem to be silenced by the sheer decisiveness of Phil's words.

It takes Clint a moment to realize the burning in his eyes is from tears.

He rubs the back of his hand across them, jerking in surprise when a familiar palm comes to rest over his, fingers intertwining. When he looks back at Phil, there's a sheepish grin spreading across his face. "I..." Phil says. "I really want this. With you, I mean."

"But-" Clint starts, but Phil's already shakes his head.

"I don't mind taking it slow, Clint." Phil says slowly, enunciating every word, using his Agent-Coulson-is-serious voice. "I don't mind taking it as slow as you want, as long as I get to have you."

Clint scrunches his eyes shut. "Fuck," he breathes, "You already have me, you fucking idiot."

Phil barely has enough time to say, "You have me too-" before Clint's attacking him with his mouth, pushing him backwards onto the bed.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading.
> 
> Title is from "One Short Night" by Grace Potter and the Nocturnals.


End file.
